


At Your Grave

by witka



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Depressing, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other, Possible other tags I can't think of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-06-25
Packaged: 2018-02-06 05:12:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1845580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/witka/pseuds/witka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Behind the Xavier Institute for Gift Youngsters, there's a small cemetery. It sits in a far corner of the property, enclosed by a tall hedge and wrought iron gates, hiding it from view. Erik hadn't seen it when he had been here before, but it wasn't exactly something that would be included on a tour. Yet as he stood there, his eyes wandered over to the row of new markers, Erik remembered that he had never asked Charles why, exactly, he couldn't sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At Your Grave

 Behind the Xavier Institute for Gift Youngsters, there's a small cemetery. It sits in a far corner of the property, enclosed by a tall hedge and wrought iron gates, hiding it from view. Erik hadn't seen it when he had been here before, but it wasn't exactly something that would be included on a tour. Yet as he stood there, taking in the rows of headstones and flowering bushes, he wonders how he missed it. As his eyes wandered over to the row of new markers, Erik remembered that he had never asked Charles why, exactly, he couldn't sleep.

It had been several weeks since the incident at the White House. Erik had been working to maintain a low profile, had in fact been spending time in Montreal of all places when a rumor reached him from one of his new followers. It seemed that Charles was going to reopen his school, another attempt to fulfill the dream he had talked about. Memories of red rimmed bitter eyes and old anger hovered in his mind when he thought of Charles. Erik tried to ignore the news, to push all thoughts of his old friend away. In the end he failed, and quite before he realized it, Erik had given in to the need to go back to Westchester, to check on his old friend.

The stated of disrepair the house was in was shocking. The grounds were overrun and unkempt in a way that Erik didn't think Charles had the capacity to handle. The man he had known liked things neat and ordered. But then, a lot of things had changed since he had last had meaningful contact with Charles. His appearance at the prison break had been evidence of that. When he stepped up to the door and knocked, he wasn't surprised to be greeted by the distrustful eyes of Hank. He was still wearing that disgusting human form, but Erik knew better than to underestimate him. When he said he wanted to see Charles, the distrust did not leave, but it was matched by a deep seated resignation.

“He's out back, I'll take you to him.”

Erik followed after Hank, across the gates and through the equally unkempt back grounds of the estate. They walked until they came to the decoratively scrolled iron gate with the Xavier X fashioned in the center. It had that same certain Victorian opulence to it that matched the rest of the house. The arch above the doors stated in decorative scrollwork, _Deficit Omne Quod Nasciture._ Erik's latin was a bit rusty, it wasn't a language he had had much used for, but he managed to come up with a rough translation. Everything that is born, passes away.

Inside there was a row of old graves, remnants of members of the Xavier family long past. Yet the further in he walked, the newer the tombstones became. At the far end he saw Charles sitting in his chair, staring at the farthest tombstone. Erik walked slowly, his eyes disinterestedly tracing the names of Charles' forebears when he came to one of the newer ones. The name inscribed there made him stop cold, his throat unexplainably closing.

Armando Muniz A.K.A. Darwin

1942-1962

Erik's eyes traced over the name, his mind flashing back to the young man he and Charles had recruited. Who had died at Shaw's hand while they were off in Russia. Who had died trying to save and protect others.

“The others felt there should be a marker, even if there was no actual body to bury.” Charles' voice is quiet, remorseful as he came to a stop next to Erik. Tired blue eyes traced the name and the bold X that marked the top of the marker. “They didn't want his passing to go unremarked, he was one of the team after all. We had planned it before... before Cuba.” Erik ignored the way his friend's voice choked up and came out as a rasp. “As soon as we could, we held a memorial here.”

Erik nodded, taking a deep breath. He glanced down, taking in a long row of tombstones that followed Darwin's. So many stone markers, so many deaths. Erik had spent ten years in a concrete prison, rotting for his failure to save one of them. While he was there Charles had been here, suffering his own losses.

Erik watched as he turned his chair around, facing the way he had just come. He didn't glance back at Erik, had in fact not looked at him once. When he began to go down the row, Erik followed, stopping at the next marker.

Samuel Guthrie A.K.A. Cannonball

1949-1967

“He was one of the first students I managed to convince to attend the school. He was just a boy from Kentucky. His family, they were so excited to hear that he would get to attend a school like mine.” A short, all too bitter laugh escaped him. “Sam was one of the first of the students to be drafted for Vietnam. He died over there, ambush the official report says. When he died, his mother wrote to inform me.” Charles' voice wavered, and Erik could hear the creak of the wheelchair handles as he clenched his hands around it.

“She thanked me, Erik.” There was so much self-loathing in that sentence that Erik had to turn to look at his friend. Charles was hunched over in his chair, staring blankly at the marker. “She thanked me for giving her son a chance at an education and she... she said she hoped I would reopen my school. That she wanted her other children to have the same chances Sam did.” There was a long pause, the only sound being Charles' ragged breathing.

Erik hesitantly placed a hand on Charles' shoulder, squeezing it lightly. It was a paltry comfort, but the only one he could offer. He didn't speak, Erik knew from experience how hollow words of comfort sounded. Slowly Charles continued down the row, and Erik followed after him taking in each of the names. Douglas Ramsey, Victor Borkowski, Everett Thomas, James Prindle, Angelo Espinosa. All of them were so young, little more than boys who had been sacrificed on the altar of war. Eventually Charles paused at another grave, staring at it forlornly.

Forge

1938-1968 

“Forge was a teacher, one of the first teachers I found with mutant abilities that was willing to join me at my school. He was very accomplished, a good man Erik. He enjoyed teaching and promised that when he was done with his enlistment he would return, help get the school running again.”

Charles took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before he spoke again. “I felt it Erik, when he died. I never told Hank, but I would sometimes use Cerebro without him. They were still my students, even if they weren't here any longer. I wanted to look after them, to be able to offer them comfort. They were all so young Erik. Even some of the staff were so young, too young for what they had to face. So I would reach out to them, let them know they weren't alone. When Forge stepped on the landmine that killed him, I felt it. The pain, the fear, and then nothing.”

Erik felt his gut clench. He had never considered what it might be like, to be in someone's mind when they died. To experience that with them, he wasn't sure how Charles could take it. No one should have to experience that, but especially not Charles. Charles, who was far too caring for his own good.

“How many? How many of them did you feel die?” The question came out sounding like broken gravel and tasting of ashes in Erik's mouth. He had never considered that such a thing was possible. There was a small voice in the back of Erik's mind that whispered whispered he was the one who first made Charles experience it. He ignored it the same way he had learned to ignore the guilt.

Charles didn't immediately respond, instead the silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. They continued forward, more names showing up as the dates of their death grew later. Jesse Aaronson, Calvin Rankin, Julio Esteban Richter, Kyle Gibney, Santo Vaccaro, Noah Crichton. Charles drew to a stop at another grave.

Guido Carosella A.K.A. Strong Guy

1936-1969

“Seven.” Charles voice was quiet when he spoke, despair making it heavy. “I felt seven of them die in the war Erik. Guido was the last one that I felt. He was a teacher and one of the few who wasn't drafted. After the school closed and so many of the students got sent over... he volunteered. Said that someone had to go and watch those stupid kids and make sure they got back.” There was a beat of silence. “He was caught in an air strike, it wasn't... it wasn't a quick end. After his death, I stopped trying to reach out to them. I just... couldn't take that anymore.”

Erik glanced back at the row of graves they had just passed. He counted fourteen graves stretched behind them “How many students did you have here Charles? Before it closed.”

“We had twenty-five students and seven teachers including Hank and myself. It was a small start, but more impressive than I had expected.” Charles bowed his head, long hair moving to hide his face like a curtain. “We were doing good work Erik, we were helping them.” The despair hung thick in Charles' voice.

Fourteen graves, nearly half of the people that had been there. All dead within a few short years. Erik's mind flashed back to the Charles he had met on the plane going to Paris. The hollow-eyes husk of the brightly optimistic man he had known. It hadn't taken telepathy to see the anger and pain that came off of him in waves. While it had been satisfying to think that it was all because of him, Erik was starting to realize that wasn't entirely the case.

Whatever thoughts he had vanished when he saw the next grave marker.

Sean Cassidy A.K.A. Banshee

1945-1969 

It was as if all of the air had been sucked out of his lungs and there wasn't enough to fill them again. He had known about it, been aware of it in some way for years but there was a finality to seeing it spelled out in hard stone. Silence settled between both of them, each contemplating the fate of the young man they had found and helped to mold.

Erik thought back to that first flight, the excited cries of victory as Banshee flew around the grounds. The bravery he had shown facing Shaw, jumping into the water without a second thought and a cocky grin. Erik was sure that he had shown that same bravery in the face of Trask's torture. He couldn't bear to think of it any other way.

“I felt him.” Charles voice came out flat and dead. “I felt what they did to him. The second I felt it, I started searching. I was frantic. I knew that if I couldn't find him soon, then he would be...” Charles closed his eyes tightly. “I had just found him, I had Hank getting the plane ready to take us there. It was only the two of us by that point, but I had to try. Even if it was futile, I couldn't just leave him to what they were doing. Right as we were about to leave, Sean's mind vanished. I wasn't in time to save him, I couldn't find him quickly enough.” There was a bitter bark of laughter. “It seems no matter what I do, its never enough. That night, I drank an entire bottle of Scotch.”

Hearing about Banshee's death, even though they had parted ways, hit Erik hard. He could only imagine how it had been for Charles, always the more compassionate and understanding of them. Charles was the one who let people into his heart, and gave them pieces of it to take with them. More than that, he could see the blame and guilt to that Charles would never admit to. The feeling that he had failed his students. Not just Banshee, but all of them that had died. He had always taken things to personally.

“It wasn't your fault Charles.” Erik was aware of how hollow the words would seem, yet he offered them anyway. “You did everything you could for them, for him. Even you can't do everything, old friend.” Glancing at Charles' face hardened into a scowl, Erik could see he refused to accept the paltry bit of comfort Erik could offer.

“No, I didn't do everything. If I had, I could have reached him before...” Charles ran his fingers through his hair, pulling at the long locks in frustration. “Hank says the same thing, that if we got there in time it wouldn't have worked. That there was no one to help us get in or out. We'd only have gotten captured ourselves.” The bitterness in his voice was like acid in Erik's ears. Charles was never meant to sound like that.

“The worst part of it all Erik, is that he's right. Even if we'd gotten there, we probably wouldn't have been able to save Sean. Because you left Erik.” The anger from the plane had come back, tinged with the same hollowness he'd heard before. “You left Erik. Left and got entangled with whatever the hell happened with Kennedy! You were in a prison under the Pentagon for ten years where you couldn't be any bloody help to anyone! How many of them did Trask kill because the great Magneto wasn't there to help them?” Once the words were out Charles slumped back into his chair, like all of the energy had been drained out of him.

Silence fell over them like a dark cloud. Erik had no response for Charles' accusation, the same way Charles hadn't responded to his own claim on the plane. Maybe Charles had abandoned them, turned away and hidden himself in his giant, lonely house, but could Erik honestly say he hadn't been hiding as well? Yes he had been in a prison where there was no metal, but he hadn't made much of an effort to get out either. He'd let his guilt over failing to save Kennedy, over being part of the cause of his death, keep him there when he could have figured out a way to escape.

Charles was the first to break their silent standoff, turning away from Banshee's grave and rolling to the next one. Erik stayed put for a minute, wishing to pay his respects in his own way. Crouching down, he traced the name with his fingers, each one a knife in his heart. “I'm sorry, Sean. I pray that you have found peace now.” Carefully Erik withdrew one of the metal balls he had taken to carrying with him after the incident in Washington DC. It took the briefest of thoughts to flatten it into a flatting oblong shape that he carefully placed on top of the tombstone.

When he straightened, he found Charles watching him from several feet away. He was in front of the newest grave now. There was a sinking feeling in his stomach as he walked over, eyes moving to the new marker.

Alexander Summers A.K.A. Havoc

1945-1973 

Erik was quiet as he looked at it, the hollow feeling in his gut opening wider. “How? I thought he had made it back...” He had heard from some of the new followers that had come to him, that Alex had made it back from Vietnam. Raven had gotten them out and shipped stateside, but none of them knew anything beyond that.

“I'm not sure. Raven sent a letter telling me she had saved him from Trask and had him shipped back. I thought maybe he might be in contact, but nothing came. Eventually, I tried to use Cerebro tofind him, but there was no trace of him. My reach with Cerebro has expanded Erik, if he were anywhere I would have found him.” Charles clenched his hands together before he turned his chair away. “Another failure it seems.”

Erik didn't say anything to that, instead he stared down at Alex's grave. So many young lives turned to ashes, yet here he was left to continue. It seemed foolish that all of these bright lives with their potential were cut short, while he remained. He found himself once again reaching into his pocket, shaping a new stone to place gently on the headstone.

When he turned away, he saw Charles staring at him, all of the previous anger and bitterness melted away. The sadness remained, making his eyes an unearthly blue, but there also was something in them Erik hadn't seen for a long time. He had glimpsed it, briefly, at the White House, now though it shone so much clearer. There was a light of hope in Charles' eyes, directed at him.

Erik managed a small smile, moving towards his old friend. Charles was positioned towards a small group of headstones that were a further from the others. As he walked he glanced at them, only to have his whole body seize up. Just when he thought that all of his feelings had been wrung out a new wave of grief came over him. Swiftly he moved to the next on, and then the next one. “Charles... why?”

Azazel

?-1963

Angel Salvadore A.K.A. Tempest

1943-1963

 Janos Quested A.K.A. Riptide

1937-1969

Emma Frost

1930-1969

“Because, they deserved better than what Trask gave them.” Charles voice was soft as he spoke. “We might have had our differences with them, but no one deserved that sort of fate. Not even them.”

Erik swallowed back the grief that clogged the back of his throat, carefully placings stones on each of the graves. He had never been very close to them, but they had been his comrades, his people, his responsibility. Not friends though, he'd never let them close enough for that. Raven and Charles had been the closest and he'd managed to drive both of them away at various points. Still, he was supposed to protect them and care for them. They shouldn't have been left to be butchered the way they were.

“When... when Emma died, I felt it.” Charles kept his gaze fixed on the stones Erik had placed. “She reached out to me at the very end, her mind connecting with mine. She'd been there when they had taken all the others. She'd felt it as they tortured and experimented on them before they died. She transferred all of that to me, before I felt her fall apart. It's something I wish... I hope... I'll never have to feel again.” His voice shook at the end, but Erik couldn't bring himself to comment on it.

“Why? Why did she reach out to you? How?” Erik's voice was raw when he spoke, but he was beyond a point where he could stop it.

“Emma was a telepath, and like calls to like Erik. I was probably the only other mind she could connect with. I think telepaths are always able to reach out to each other more easily than anyone else. After all, no one else knows what its like to be a telepath, except for another one.”

 

_Erik felt something jolt in his mind, a memory working its way loose from where he had stored it. The last time the Brotherhood had been together, when he had been telling them about his plans to go to Dallas to protect the President. They had argued about it until finally Erik had dismissed them and left to pack the few things he would take._

_He had felt someone come in behind him, but he had expected it to be Raven if anyone. Yet when he turned he was confronted with the sight of Emma standing just in the doorway. Her hip was cocked and she watched him, coifed blonde head tilted to the side._

“ _They don't trust me.” Erik wasn't sure why he said it. He knew it wasn't her influence, he still had the helmet. Maybe he just needed to speak of it with someone._  

“ _And you don't trust them. It bothers them.” Emma's voice was the same as always, light and teasing but leaving no doubt of the brain behind the beauty._

_Erik nodded slightly, watching her with a raised an eyebrow. “It doesn't seem to bother you so much.” He stated, watching her._

_She shrugged a bit, smiling in that honey sweet way that Erik had come to realize was entirely fake. “I'm used to it at this point, sugar. After all, nobody really trusts a telepath.”_

 

Erik looked at Charles for a minute, Emma's words from so long ago playing over and over in his head. He looked back at Emma's grave, wondering if Charles had ever felt like that. To realize that no one trusted him because his power, yet he could do something like this. Go to all this trouble for Erik's people, for people he really shouldn't have cared about. Yet he had not only felt their death, he had also taken the time to give them markers, a memorial. something Erik hadn't even considered.

“Thank you, old friend. For doing this.” He straightened up, wiping a shaking hand over his eyes. Charles was kind enough not to say anything about it though. Instead he turned his chair back towards the gate.

“I'm going back to the house, you can come if you want Erik.” He said the words quietly, an offer and a request. Like before he was leaving everything to Erik.

Erik stayed for a few minutes longer, paying his final respects. As he left the graveyard, Erik glanced back at the row of bleak tombstones that stretched behind them. Erik found himself reevaluating what it must have been like for Charles in those years after they had parted at Cuba. So much loss, no wonder he had run away from it all.

Erik had never handled loss well, not from the very beginning when Shaw had killed his mother. When Erik felt lost he turned it into rage and then turned that rage into a weapon to be trained on his enemies. Charles was so much stronger than he was, that he could take this kind of loss and somehow find hope in it. There were so many different facets to his friend, things he had never thought of before. “You are stronger than you know my friend.” Erik whispered, watching as Charles disappeared into the house.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is mostly a one-shot, but I might continue to expand it a bit. Mostly I wrote this because the movie left me with an excess of feels and sadness.
> 
> Plus I did actual research on the war aspect, since the movie kind of skimped on that aspect. So some dates to know, US combay units first entered Vietnam in 1965. Hank references the Vietnam War getting worse as the reason the school closed. Well since there wasn't any one exact time things got worse, I went with 1967 because that years about 40,000 men were drafted each month.
> 
> Also all of the people listed in here were actual X-Men in the comics.


End file.
